


Tipping The Scales

by stop_the_fading



Series: Unlikely Legends From The Beacon Hills Cycle [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dragon!Stiles, Humor, Marshmallows, Multi, PTSD, Scott is a Good Alpha, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Dad, Stiles/Cora friend!ship, Stiles/Derek friend!ship, Stiles/Lydia friend!ship, Stilinski Family Feels, Tags Added As I Go, alpha!Scott
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stop_the_fading/pseuds/stop_the_fading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Stiles has thought about being super-human before. What teenage boy hasn't? But when it came right down to it, he couldn't deny that being human felt RIGHT - he was exactly who he was meant to be, and that was fine. Someone needed to keep the pack connected to reality, anyway.</p><p>But now he's decidedly NOT human, and it's worse than he'd imagined. He's thinking weird things, doing weird things, and if he's lucky, the tongue thing will be the worst of it.</p><p>But when has Stiles ever been lucky?</p><p>:::</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NGL, the majority of this fic was written while listening to [Gangnam Style for Orchestra](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWtEFWKmRrM). If that doesn't tell you something about what this fic's gonna be like, idk what will.

    Stiles likes stories.  
  
    He's always liked them, ever since he was small and had first been wrapped up tight in his mother's arms and told the story of his grandfather's namesake - and, by extension, his own - and the tragic love between him and Deirdre. Sad as the story was (and even at four, he'd had a lot to say about how they could have done things differently), it had captured his imagination, blooming behind his eyes in vivid colors and sounds. Even now, he can remember the lilting tones of his mother's voice overlayed with the low hum of fat, furry bees, the smell of wisteria thick in the air as they swayed back and forth in the hammock in the yard, buttery sunlight dappling her face as she spoke, slow and soft.  
  
    It's still his favorite memory of her, even if the exact shade of her hair is dulled in his mind's eye, and some of the words are drowned out by the rasp of death.  
  
    He still has her books, though, and he's read through them time and again. The stories of the Ulster Cycle are still his favorites, mostly for nostalgic reasons, but he's not terribly picky - he'll devour anything with a dynamic plot, even something as short as The Giving Tree. He finds comfort in the words, the lessons, the way they can take him out of his fluttering, skittish mind and give him a moment to think of nothing else. After Claudia had died, stories had become Stiles' favorite place to hide, letting his imagination sweep him along in Orpheus' steps to rescue her from the afterlife. In the end, though, no matter how he swore not to repeat the legend's mistakes, he would have to open his eyes to look for her, and she would be gone again.  
  
    Nowadays, Stiles sticks mostly to the stories movies and comics and games tell - all wonderful and engaging in their own way, though he could always see the stories of his childhood playing out in them, because really, there were only so many stories in the world, weren't there?  
  
    The story Stiles is currently living is unfamiliar to him so far (although the whole abduction of a virgin thing is pretty common in even the oldest of tales...or perhaps especially in the oldest of tales, so really not so unfamiliar, then), and it's definitely not going in his top ten favorite stories ever. It's probably not even going into his top one hundred. It's mostly going to be relegated to his ever-expanding library of least favorite stories ever.  
  
    "Y'see, this is what happens when innocent virgins run around with packs of hairy-ass night-fiends," Stiles moans as he stumbles into Deaton's office. The pack clusters around him, murmuring amongst themselves as Scott leads him to one of Deaton's exam tables and helps him clamber up. It's cold and steady beneath him, but it does little to clear the fog from his brain. Whatever his captor had done to him, his systems are reacting to it like too many shots of tequila. "Did I not say that I needed an emergency deflowering? Did I not warn you all that if someone didn't tap this it would only lead to trouble?"  
  
    He doesn't like the amused looks everyone is giving him. He'd just been kidnapped, for crying out loud! They should be tearing their hair out with worry!  
  
    "We were plenty worried, Stiles," Allison reassures him as he sways a bit where he sits. "We still are. We're just glad that you're okay."  
  
    "Okay?" Stiles narrows his eyes at her and accidentally winks. He glances at Isaac, because they guy is unpredictable, and it would be unfortunate for him to get the idea that Stiles is flirting with his girlfriend. Isaac doesn't seem to think that, though, because his lips are twitching in way that's more tickled than bordering-on-fang-bearing, so Stiles turns back to Allison. Except she's Deaton now, and she's holding up several fingers for him to count. He doesn't let this deter him. "I am not okay, AlliDeatonson," he informs the person, holding up a matching number of fingers and wagging them in her...his...their face. "I was abducted and held prisoner in a very nicely refurbished basement rec room for a whole twelve hours. I know. I counted along with the clock."  
  
    "We know how long you were gone," Scott reassures him from somewhere behind him, "because we spent that entire time looking for you."  
  
    "The house is empty, by the way," Aiden says, swimming into Stiles' line of sight in a haze, like Stiles is looking at him over a steaming bowl of soup. Mushroom soup, he decides, because Aiden has a mushroom kind of personality - spongy and gross, hard to tell when it's okay to eat versus when it will kill you horribly, and it grows on you against your will in dank, dark, unpleasant conditions. Especially if you're a corpse. "Whoever kidnapped you headed out of there in a hurry," he continues in a strangled tone while everyone else coughs and snorts. Stiles isn't sure what's funny, but he snickers along anyway. Then what Aiden says catches up to him, and he's not snickering anymore.  
  
    "You mean it's out there now? Somewhere? Lurking? Have you checked the caves?" He can feel his chest getting tight, his fingers skittering against the smooth metal tabletop, and Allison's hand comes up to rub against his back. She's on his other side now, her and Deaton having resolved into two separate people (which is a relief, because as much as Isaac likes the vet, that would have been awkward), smiling at him comfortingly. "Check the caves!"  
  
    "He can lurk all he likes," Scott growls, and Stiles instantly feels safer, "we're not letting him get you again, Stiles. I promise."  
  
    "We're checking everywhere," Ethan adds. He's not so mushroomy as Aiden is, but he still puts Stiles off. Maybe because they share a face. Sometimes literally. "Even the caves."  
  
    "Good. He's probably there," Stiles mutters, pursing his lips. He's momentarily distracted by the fact that he can see his own lips, oh my god, is that normal? before he remembers to add, "Or in a castle ruin somewhere. Dragons like castles."  
  
    Everyone blinks. Not simultaneously, which would have been creepy enough, but like a ripple of blinking. Like The Wave, only with eyelashes instead of hands. Stiles blinks back, because he's a joiner.  
  
    "Dragon?" Deaton circles around in front of Stiles, and Stiles glanced to the side to make sure Allison is still herself this time. "Stiles, what makes you think the man who abducted you is a dragon?"  
  
    "Uh..." Stiles thinks about it, because he has no real proof, he supposes, except for the scales and the claws and the noxious fog he'd breathed into Stiles' face that had knocked him unconscious, which, wow. Rude. And then there was the tail. And the wings. And the fact that he'd told Stiles he was a dragon. He could have been lying, though. He was probably lying, because dragons? Not historically so human-shaped.  
  
    Stiles tells them this, hoping to reassure them that it probably wasn't a dragon, but if anything, they look more concerned. Lydia even stops twirling her hair around her finger the way she tends to do when someone is boring her and stares at him. It's not the sort of stare he'd have liked her to direct at him, but it's nice to have her full attention when he's not having a panic attack. He wants to preen, or spread his plumage, or...something. Scott is trying to get his attention, though, so he makes a mental note to posture later and tries his best to focus.  
  
    "Stiles, do you know who it is? The dragon? Is it someone you know?"  
  
    "Nope," Stiles says, popping the 'P' with a grin, because Scott. Scott's his best friend, even if he is spending all his Stiles-time with Isaac, which is weird. It's weird that Isaac stole Allison from Scott, then stole Scott from Stiles. Isaac is a person-stealer, and it's weird that no one seems to hate him for it. Stiles doesn't even hate him for it...much. It's the curls, Stiles thinks, nodding to himself and peering at Isaac, who looks torn between hurt feelings and laughter for some reason. Maybe because he's psychic. Stiles peers at him harder.  
  
    'I know your secret,' he thinks as loudly as he can, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction when Isaac jumps. Everyone jumps, actually, but Stiles is positive it's just because Isaac jumped first. 'I know you can read my thoughts, Poodle-face. Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow-'  
  
    "Stiles," Scott grinds out with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "Stiles, stop. Please."  
  
    "Stop what?" Stiles asks absently, still peering at Isaac. He must been peering a bit too hard, because he nearly slips off the table, and Allison has to yank him back up.  
  
    "Stop...oh, my God, just stop." Scott's practically wheezing now. In fact, everyone looks like they're struggling to hold back laughter.  
  
    It's Deaton who elaborates, though, the only one in the room who is still infuriatingly straight-faced. "Whatever the dragon did to you," he murmurs as he shines a light in Stiles' eye like the ambiguous dickbag that he is, "it seems to have produced an effect not dissimilar to copious alcohol consumption. You're having some trouble keeping your thoughts to yourself."  
  
    "He made you all psychic?" Stiles jabs a finger at Isaac, whose eyes widen in oh-so-false innocence. "I knew it!"  
  
    "No, Stiles," Allison elaborates gently. "He means you're saying what you're thinking. Out loud."  
  
    Stiles gives her a look of pity. Clearly, she's in denial about her newfound psychic abilities. He doesn't blame her - he wouldn't want to hear what went on in some people's heads, either. Like Derek. Derek's thoughts are probably all depressing and forlorn. Like an Edgar Allen Poe poem. Or Toy Story 3.  
  
    "Uh, speaking of Derek-"  
  
    Stiles' head whips around and he points at Isaac again. "No one said anything about Derek! You are totally reading my thoughts! Don't deny it!"  
  
    He wants to shout some more, because he has been through some serious shit today, and no one seems to be as concerned about the dragon and his weird psychic mojo as they should be. Allison is rubbing his back again, though, and it's really hard to think about worrying things like what the dragon was trying to do to him when she does that.  
  
    Her hand stills. "Things?" Everyone is crowding close again, and Stiles flails. Allison ignores his jerky shooing motions, though, and grasps his hands warmly. "Stiles. What things? What was the dragon trying to do?"  
  
    "He..." Stiles frowns. There had been something. A strange oil that tingled against Stiles' back. Candles and a silk robe. Something about... "He married me? I think?"  
  
    Everyone leans back. Stiles kind of wants to, too, because they're still looming oppressively, but Allison's hand on his back is keeping him in place.  
  
    "There was...an anointing. And colored candles. And a lot of Latin." Stiles sighs through his nose. "Figures. The one person who wants to sex me and he can't even bother to buy me flowers like a normal dude. He knocked me out with his morning breath and went...I don't know. Maybe he really was gonna buy me flowers. But then I woke up and climbed out the basement window like a boss. Hey," he interrupts himself loudly, causing everyone to jump again, "am I actually married? Should I introduce him to my dad? Cuz I think my dad might shoot him in his stupid dragon face. Which...yeah, I should totally introduce him to Dad."  
  
    "Why don't we hold off on that," Deaton recommends, poking at Stiles' throat on either side where it meets his jawline. "Your father is on duty, correct?"  
  
    "Yeah. Or, he was. He didn't join in the search?" Come to think of it, it's odd that his dad isn't around. He hadn't been in the vet's office when Stiles had stumbled up, shirt sticky from the oil and head spinning, and he hadn't arrived since, even though Deaton had put the call out to the rest of the pack as soon as Stiles had slumped against the counter out front.  
  
    Scott and Deaton side-eye each other warily. "We, uh, didn't tell him," Scott offers finally, rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
    Stiles cackles. "He's gonna kill you, dude."  
  
    He gets it, really. After the whole thing with the darach and the alpha pack, it had been hard enough to convince his dad not to lock him away like Rapunzel, which would have sucked, no matter how fabulous Stiles' hair could have been. Scott's been working hard at making sure Stiles is as safe as possible at all times (which isn't terribly safe, admittedly, because it's Beacon Hills, their very own real-life Hellmouth), always making sure to keep John informed of what's going on and what he can do to help. John, for his part, is equal measures eager to help and incredibly reticent about allowing a bunch of seventeen-year-olds to run around risking their lives for the greater good.  
  
    Possibly Stiles' speech about Teen Titans hadn't helped much with that.  
  
    So Stiles definitely gets why the pack had held off on informing John that they'd let his only child get kidnapped by a dragon who had been, if the pictures of littering the rec room had been any indication, stalking Stiles for the better part of a month without the knowledge of the werewolves in residence, and forced through some kind of weird dragon mating-slash-marriage ritual. And he also gets why they're worried about telling him now. What Stiles doesn't get is how they all look vaguely hopeful, like they think they might get away with not telling him ever.  
  
    Stiles cackles again.  
  
    Deaton swabs at the traces of tingly oil left all over Stiles' skin for testing, checks his reflexes and looks in his ears, asks vaguely uncomfortable questions about the state of Stiles' virginity (still intact, thankfully, although it was really starting to prove to be more of a risk than a simple inconvenience), then asks if Stiles can give a description of the dragon.  
  
    "Uh...well, usually about six-two, except when he was all wormy...wait, does the tail count? He had a tail sometimes, and it was...it was long. He was, like, eleven feet long when he was wormy. Blue scales, when he had them. And wings. Those were blue, too. Brown Edward-y Cullen-y hair, when he had it, and blue eyes. Except they were yellow sometimes?" Stiles thinks hard. "He sounds like a motorboat. And he doesn't smell. Like, at all."  
  
    "No, we got that part," Ethan says, wrinkling his nose. "There was nothing in the house but scented candles and some kind of spices. Nothing that smelled even vaguely alive, much less supernatural."  
  
    "Dragons," Deaton puts in mildly as he offers Scott a washcloth to help rub the oil off of Stiles, "can sometimes display natural stealth abilities. It varies from species to species, and takes different forms - the ability to blend into one's surroundings, for instance, or move silently even to werewolf ears. Stiles' dragon, it seems, can mask his scent."  
  
    "He's not my dragon, oh, my God. We're just married, it's not, like, serious or anything."  
  
    "It's also possible," Deaton continues as though Stiles hasn't spoken, leaving Stiles to wonder if the weird psychic thing has inverted, and now they can't hear Stiles at all, "that he has more stealth abilities than that. Given the werewolf population of this town, I'd say that's actually very probable."  
  
    "Can you hear me?" Stiles whimpers when Deaton's finished. Scott scrubs a hand through Stiles' hair, ruffling it in all directions, and Stiles breathes easily again.  
  
    "We can hear you, Stiles. He's not your dragon, gotcha. And you're not married."  
  
    Stiles squirms around, away from the warm washcloth, to gape at Scott hopefully. "We're not?"  
  
    "Did you say 'I do'?" Scott asks with a waggle of eyebrows that's more than distracting.  
  
    Stiles puts a forefinger on each eyebrow and presses them down until they stop moving. "Scott," he says slowly, because he needs to be sure he understands, "do you mean it, or are you just quote The Princess Bride at me to make me feel better."  
  
    "A little of both," Scott admits sheepishly. "Is it working?"  
  
    Thinking for a moment, Stiles nods. "Yup."  
  
    Once he's all sampled and cleaned up, t's decided that, for his own safety, Stiles will be guarded by no less than two wolves at a time, Scott and Isaac switching off with Ethan and Aiden until they can find the dragon. Stiles protests until Deaton tells them it should be safe enough for them to take him home, and that once the sheriff gets home, they can leave - the dragon won't try to take Stiles if his father is there.  
  
    "Dragons have a somewhat-medieval code of their own. He might resort to trickery and outright kidnapping to get what he wants, because he can always obtain John's blessing after the fact, but he's not going to chance going up against his chosen's father before they're fully bonded, lest he risk being forbidden from Stiles," the vet rambles as Stiles weaved out the door. "Just make sure that John knows what's going on, and not to leave Stiles alone in the house."  
  
    "A chivalrous stalker. I'm the luckiest princess in the kingdom," Stiles grumbles a couple of hours later as he struggles out of his jeans and flops facedown onto his comforter. "My life is a renaissance festival of horrors and I hate everything," he tells his pillow conspiratorily. His pillow has nothing clever to add, but that's not a new development or anything. Stiles punches it a little anyway.  
  
    It takes him a while to doze off, mostly because he keeps getting the urge to play Boggle. When sleep does come, it drags at him, and he can feel himself sinking deeper into a warm darkness.  
  
    He's flying suddenly. It's not terrifying, or exhilarating. It's calming, soothing - the slip of cool air through his hair, over his back and stomach. A thermal has his wings straining, and he sighs as he wheels higher and higher. He can see forests below, stretching to the horizon in all directions, wild and comforting. There's the scent of plentiful game and a rush of fresh water, and he dips one wing, gliding down until his belly is skimming the canopy.  
  
    Just ahead is a small range of mountains, gray and sparse even in the bloom of spring, spiking high and jagged against the deep blue of the sky. The deep blue shadows of crags and caves beckon him, and he stretches, warm air billowing about him as he puts on an impossible burst of speed.  
  
    "Naoise."  
  
    He stops midair, whirling, head snapping about as he searches for the source.  
  
    "Naoise. I'm here."  
  
    His mothers voice drifts softly on the breeze, wisps of memory, but Stiles knows it's real, knows it's her. She's calling him, like she had when he was small.  
  
    "Come here, Naoise. Come to Mother."  
  
    Keening, he makes for the mountains again, grasping at the strands of her voice as she leads him nearer and nearer to the cliffs. "Mama," he cries as he swoops down into a murky cave. "Mama!"  
  
    It's dim inside, and cool, and the air tastes of a perfect softness. Gold, his brains supplies as his pupils dilate, the corners of his nest coming into view. He flicks his tongue out to taste again, testing the air. Gold, his brain says again. Everything in him settles, some of the wildness and the sky-lust easing, replaced with the urge to curl up and sleep. It's so reassuring that he nearly forgets what he came in search of.  
  
    "Naoise," his mother's voice calls again, sounding from every inky nook of the cave. "Naoise."  
  
    "Mama," he breathes. He turns, around and around, reaching out for nothing. "Mama! Mama, where are you?"  
  
    He opens his mouth to shout again, and he feels the acid-hot sting of a wasp against the tip of his tongue. He cries out, flailing away, but there are more. They swarm him, buzzing shrill and furious, nothing like the round, soft hum of the bees in his yard, and they drown out his mother's voice. They sting everywhere, relentless, until all he can feel is hot pain, inside and out, swelling his throat until he can't even scream. It sears him down to the marrow, brighter and brighter until he's sure he'll die of it.  
  
    Then, when he can bear no more, he sinks again, away from the comforting scent of gold and home, away from the endless blue sky, away from his mother's call. Away even from the bitter-sharp agony of the wasp sting, until at last, there's nothing.  
  
    Stiles comes awake suddenly with a low groan, aching all over in an absent sort of a way. He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, blinking in the early morning light as wisps of his pillowcase flutter about, caught in his night-black claws.  
  
    Wait...  
  
    Stiles swallows harshly, leaning back to sit on his heels as his lifts his hands. The sunlight gleams off the red and gold scales that creep up just past his wrists, and Stiles thinks he might throw up. Groaning pitifully, he scrambles out of the tangled, tattered sheets and lunges for his mirror.  
  
    What's reflected back at him is definitely not human, and as he stares and stares and stares, the panic rises until his tail - oh, God, his tail - is thrashing, taking out his lamp with a crash. As his shaking fingers rake up into his hair and over his jagged crown of horns, claws scraping jarringly, footsteps thunder down the hall. John bursts into the room in his pajamas and stares, as well.  
  
    "Well," he croaks as Stiles whimpers, reptilian eyes filling with tears, "it looks like Scott left a few things out of his explanation."  
  
    Stiles wants to laugh.  
  
    He sobs instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, 'Naoise' is pronounced kinda like 'NEEsha'.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://www.frodis-baggins.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

    "I have a tail," Stiles moans, turning this way and that and scanning his reflection despondently.  
  
    Ethan paces, strangely worried for someone who isn't all that fond of Stiles to begin with. "Maybe it's some kind of a curse?"  
  
    "Derek would know - he knows what magic smells like," Isaac offers from his seat in the corner.  
  
    "I have a tail," Stiles reiterates, because he doesn't feel anyone else is as upset about this as they should be.  
  
    Scott purses his lips, arms crossed defiantly. "We are not calling Derek."  
  
    Coughing, Isaac raises his hand. "Uh, Scott..."  
  
    "There is a tail. My tail. My tail is a thing that exists." Still, no one looks over.  
  
    "You called him? Isaac-"  
  
    "Stiles had been gone for six hours, Scott. There were no leads. What were you expecting me to do?"  
  
    "Well, it definitely wasn't for you to fucking call Derek!"  
  
    "Oh, my God. I have a fucking tail."  
  
    Scott throws his hands in the air with a growl and spins to scowl at Stiles somewhat ineffectively. Whether it's because Stiles has known Scott for eight years or because Scott is an honest-to-God puppy, complete with puppy eyes, he's not sure. "Yes, Stiles," he huffs. "You have a tail. We know. We can see it."  
  
    "We've felt it," Aiden adds with a glower, rubbing his forearm where Stiles had managed to whip him in his earlier panic. Aiden's expression is more effective than anything Scott can muster up, but Stiles is still to preoccupied with owning an extra limb to care.  
  
    "Even werewolves don't usually have tails," he whines. "Oh, God, I'm even weirder than you, now, Scott. That's just wrong."  
  
    "What's wrong," Lydia points out from where she's twirling in his computer chair, "is that you were ever under the impression that you were the normal one."  
  
    Initially, Stiles had been glad when Aiden had dragged Lydia in with him. She's the smartest person he knows, after all, and if anyone can help him figure out what's going on and how to fix it, it's Lydia Martin. Even the initial embarassment of her seeing him wearing nothing but a sheet that had seen better days hadn't been able to quell the surge of hope her confident presence had given him. Now, though, he really just wants her to not be there. He feels constantly five seconds from a full-blown panic attack, and he's pretty sure that if she tries kissing him out of it again, Aiden will go about fixing things by ripping Stiles' various new - and probably some old and beloved - bits clean off.  
  
    Whimpering again and taking comfort in the way the pitiful sound always makes the werewolves flinch, Stiles turns back to the mirror.  
  
    He's not exceptionally lizard-y. Not like Jackson had been, anyway. He's more human than dragon, even, in a way that his captor hadn't been, even when only partially shifted. He doesn't have whiskers, for one thing, and he was glad of it - he'd made a joke during his captivity about Snidely Whiplash moustaches that surely would have come back to haunt him.  
  
    What he does have was freaky enough, though, even without the long, thick, muscled whip of a tail currently curling around one ankle. That, he thinks with a shudder, is very reminiscent of the Kanima. It's not a pleasant thought. Worse, the tail had shredded through his favorite Iron Man boxers, leaving him with the torn remains of his sheet as the only protection of his dignity.  
  
    The scales gleam red with patches of gold as he twists, trying to get a decent look at his back. He can feel a strange sensation along his spine, a difference in the way the air feels against his skin, and he wonders if the scales travel all the way up his back. They do spill over his shoulders and down his upper arms, melting into normal, human skin just above his elbows before picking back up at his wrists, spreading out across the backs of his hands in the same patchy pattern.  
  
    That would be the freaky part of what was wrong with his arms, if it wasn't for the blood-red, leathery wings. They're attached to the tops of his upper arms, shoulder-to-elbow, and he can fold and flex them awkwardly, kind of similarly to how he moves the rest of his limbs. It gets easier and less ungainly the more he does it. The new appendages are vaguely bat-like, about as long from his arm to the tip as...well, another arm, and they would have been incredibly cool (especially because of the possibility of flight that they suggested) if they had been part of someone else's creepy lizard transformation.  
  
    His face is...well, it's his face, for which he's intensely grateful, although there's definitely something narrower about it. His eyes, though, are very much like Jackson's had been - speckled golden-green and snake-like. Venomous-snake-like, Stiles amends, with their slit pupils and everything. It's nine kinds of wrong, and brings back very unhappy memories of swimming pools and mechanic shops. He tears his gaze away from his own eyes to run his claws along the strange crown of twisted black spines jutting up from his skull just behind his hairline. They blend in with his hair, almost, unless you're looking for them, which officially makes them his least least-favorite thing about his situation. He's not sure yet what his most least-favorite thing is, but he suspects it's probably something he hasn't even discovered yet.  
  
    He pretends the image of laying eggs doesn't come to mind and pokes at the spines some more.  
  
    "They're called cranial horns," Deaton explains as he enters the room, nodding amicably at Stiles' father, who is sitting on the bed with his fingers pressed against his mouth. He's been staring at Stiles for the last hour or so, silent, with his familiar 'I'm processing this and once I do I'm going to have someting to say about it' look.  
  
    "Cranial horns," Stiles echoes, looking back in the mirror. His tail weaves in a sinuous pattern as he pokes at them. "That sounds...creepy."  
  
    "It looks like a tiara," Scott offers unhelpfully. Stiles turns to stick his tongue out, and Scott looks horrified. "Oh, my God. Stiles."  
  
    "What?" Whirling back to the mirror, Stiles sticks his tongue out again and gapes.  
  
    His tongue is forked.  
  
    His tongue.  
  
    Is forked.  
  
     _Forked_.  
  
    He looks like _Satan_.  
  
    He drags the appendage back in, and startles as it pokes at the roof of his mouth, and woah.  
  
    "Woah," he breathes, for once too startled to be anything but curious.  
  
    Smiling, Deaton gestures for Stiles to turn towards him. "And that would be your Jacobson's organ. I'm sure your mind is a bit of a whirlwind right now, what with new instincts and senses to acclimate to, but you'll get used to using that particular new ability in time." Off of Stiles' incredulous expression, Deaton's smile widens. "If it helps, it'll probably only work while you're shifted."  
  
    "Wait, I can shift back?" Stiles trembles with relief. "Are you sure?"  
  
    "I can't say for sure, because this isn't a situation I've run into before, but normal dragons can shift to a human form," Deaton says mildly, pulling out his penlight to shine in Stiles' eyes, the bastard.  
  
    And wow, that is unpleasant. Wings flaring briefly, Stiles rears back and growls.  
  
    The wolves in the room automatically tense, eyes flashing as they watch him intently. There's no need, really, because the sheer shock of hearing that sound rumbling out of his own chest is enough to jar him out of his sudden hostility. It's like a weird mix between a werewolf and...and...  
  
    "A motorboat," Isaac finishes, even though Stiles is positive that he hadn't been speaking aloud this time.  
  
    Eyebrows lifting, Stiles blinks at him. "Uh...what?"  
  
    "Last night, at Deaton's. You said the dragon that kidnapped you sounded like a motorboat."  
  
    "It sounds like an alligator," Chris Argent puts in from the doorway. He's hovering, Allison peeking over his shoulder with wide, startled eyes, and makes no move to come closer. "Definitely not something I'd want to hear while swimming."  
  
    Stiles thinks about that and decides that, no, he wouldn't want to hear a sound like that while swimming, either. Partly because there is something instinctively frightening about it - the sort of fear that vibrates in your bones and turns your guts to icy jelly. It sounds primordial and savage, and Stiles is still having trouble believing he'd actually made that sound at all.  
  
    And it's partly because it does sort of put him in mind of a motorboat, even sober, and no one wants to be run over by a motorboat.  
  
    "Well," John speaks up finally, dropping his hands into his lap and sitting up straighter, "look at it this way - if you're stuck like this, you can go to work doing dinosaur sound effects in the next Jurassic Park movie."  
  
    Stiles isn't sure if he's pleased with the idea or terrified.  
  
    Then Deaton asks him to open wide, and he decides to stick with 'terrified'.  
  
    "Wow," Ethan offers after a brief, heavy silence. "Those're some nice fangs ya got there, Stilinski."  
  
    They were, objectively, very impressive - they had dropped down from where they'd been sheathed inside the roof of his mouth when he'd opened up as wide as he could. He hadn't even noticed them there until they'd dropped.  
  
    Subjectively, they're goddamn fangs and they're growing out of Stiles' gums, and if things hadn't felt wrong before, they sure as hell do now. His fangs are impossible to ignore. They're as long as his middle finger, and they gleam whitely as Deaton shines his little light at them. John whistles appreciatively, and Deaton just says, "Try not to bite anyone."  
  
    Yep.  
  
    Sticking with terrified.  
  
    "How do I make it go away," he asks some time later, when Deaton has swabbed and scraped and poked and accidentally elicited another growl by grasping at Stiles' wings too firmly.  
  
    "Like I said, I'm not sure that you can," Deaton replies, not unkindly. Stiles feels everything sort of droop, and his father moves to rub a hand across the scales of his shoulderblades. "I'm going to take a guess here," the vet continues, reaching into a pocket to hold of a vial holding a few drops of an oily substance, "that the anointing ritual the dragon that kidnapped you performed wasn't to make you his, per say. It was to make you one of him. One of them."  
  
    "He was trying to turn me into a dragon," Stiles says flatly, glancing again at the reflection of his unnatural eyes.  
  
    "Essentially, and not exactly successfully. From what I can tell, it's either a spell so old it's unknown to all but the oldest of species, or it's something he cooked up himself in his spare time."  
  
    Lydia perks up, eyebrows soaring. "Spells can be invented?"  
  
    Raising his own eyebrows, Deaton regards her with the most apprehension Stiles has ever seen on the man's face. "All spells start somewhere, Lydia. Usually with blood and screaming and other horrible consequences. Spells are not synonymous with magic - they are a specific method of using magic, of weaving it into being, like potions or rituals are. Spellwork is an extremely volatile branch of magic usage, though - it is unnatural and toxic, especially when used with the wrong intentions." He pins Lydia with a narrow, warning glance. "Banshee, like other sidhe, are more attuned to magic than many other species, but that doesn't make them immune to its effects when it's twisted into spells."  
  
    Everyone in silent for a long moment, and Stiles knows that, like him, they're thinking of the darach and what her dark intentions had done to her.  
  
    "They don't mention that in Harry Potter," Isaac mumbles finally.  
  
    Chris, who had stepped aside enough to let Allison into the room once it became apparent that Stiles isn't planning on savaging anyone, leans against the far wall with his arms crossed. "Are dragons dangerous?"  
  
    Sighing, Deaton rolls the vial between his hands for a moment before answering. "Yes. Like any animal, humans included," he adds somewhat pointedly, "dragons can be dangerous. More or less so depending on the type of dragon you're dealing with. Take Stiles, who's still only partially a dragon."  
  
    Stiles sighs through his nose. "Still?"  
  
    "Judging by the situation of the wings, the thickness of the tail, the presence and form of his fangs, the lack of whiskers, the patterning on the scales, the cranial horns, and the warning call, I'd say he's most likely one of the water- or woodland-based species. That's not to say that he definitely is," Deaton continues, giving the vial in his hand a somewhat exaspirated look, "but he's probably not a fire-, lightning-, or weather-based species."  
  
    "And what does that mean?" John asks calmly, still rubbing circles between Stiles' shoulderblades, grounding him as best he can.  
  
    Deaton tilts his head. "Well, they're less aggressive, for one thing. More prone to flight than fight, if you will, unlike werewolves. More comfortable in damp climates, much less likely to go on violent rampages in medieval villages. They tend to react to situations defensively, but," he pauses, holding up a warning finger, "that doesn't mean that what they do to defend themselves won't be painful and possibly fatal. Snakes bite when they feel threatened, not for the thrill of it."  
  
    Stiles runs his tongue along one of the sheaths concealing his fangs and takes a moment to think. "Am I..." He clears his throat when his voice cracks. "I mean, my eyes. They're-"  
  
    "It's because of the light," Deaton replies, smiling as he gestures at the overhead light. "Dragons' eyes generally work like those of snakes or," he nods to Chris, "alligators. The brighter the light, the thinner the pupil. You're asking because you want to know if you're venomous, I'm guessing?" Off Stiles' nod, Deaton purses his lips. "Honestly, I don't know. Despite the rumors, the shape of the pupil of a snake's eye actually has nothing to do with whether or not that snake is venomous, and dragons tend to have prominent fangs regardless of whether or not they're venomous." He tilts his head, gazing at Stiles contemplatively. "Your fangs are hollowed, at least at the tip, but whether or not the hollowing runs all the way through to a venom sac, or whether or not you have any venom sacs at all, functioning or otherwise...well, I can't really say without more invasive testing. Would you be open to that?"  
  
    Stiles can feel his heart accelerate, and he presses his lips together with a frown, leaning back into his father's hand anxiously as he shakes his head. Not now, he thinks. Maybe later, if he can't figure out how the shift works, or if he can't shift back at all. Just not now.  
  
    "Okay," Deaton says easily. "Let me know if you change your mind, and in the meantime, it's best not to test it out on anyone, even the werewolves."  
  
    Stiles lets his father drape an arm over his shoulders and manages not to flinch when a rough thumb brushes along his wing. John continues the slight stroking motion, and slowly, gradually, Stiles begins to relax. Vague memories of his mother holding him against her like this, dragging her thumb along his arm, filter through his mind, and he slumps further against his father, suddenly wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep for a month. Maybe, he thinks, it'll all be back to normal when he wakes up.  
  
    But Deaton's gesturing for him to turn back to the mirror. "Shifting for dragons isn't exactly like a werewolf shift, but it's similar enough. Rise in heart rate shouldn't trigger it the way it does for a werewolf, but a need to defend yourself might. Simply calming down might help you shift back-"  
  
    "Dude," Stiles interrupts, blinking at Deaton disbelievingly. "I was stalked and kidnapped by a crazy dragon who wants to make me his crazy dragon bro - or possibly mate, he was kinda handsy, I'm not ruling it out - by turning me into an actual dragon, and it hasn't gone all that well for either of us so far, and now I have a tail and wings and possibly-fatally-venomous fangs, and you want me to calm down _more_? Because right now, this is as far as my calm goes." He spreads his arms (and, unconsciously, his wings) and looks around. "Not even having a panic attack anymore. This is pretty fucking calm, I think, and if it's just not calm enough for you, I'm sorry, but this is what we have to work with."  
  
    Deaton nods. "Okay, Stiles. Now, look at yourself, and try to remember what you felt like before this. Imagine yourself as human."  
  
    I am human, Stiles wants to scream. He doesn't, though, because Deaton is trying to help, and because freaking out (more? again?) isn't going to help anyone.  
  
    "Just impose that image over this one, and try to fit yourself into it."  
  
    Stiles tries. He really, really tries, until his head is spinning and his eyes are crossing and his tail is lashing fitfully, but it's just not happening. He groans, rubbing his palms against his face.  
  
    Scott steps forward, and Stiles doesn't growl this time, he hisses. It's dry and low and just as ancient-sounding as the growl, and reminds him far too much of Jackson for his peace of mind. It breaks off into a sob, and Scott steps forward again, bolder, and puts both hands on Stiles' shoulders.  
  
    "Think of Animorphs," he says softly.  
  
    Stiles looks up at Scott's reflection, brow furrowed. "What?"  
  
    "Animorphs. Remember? We used to read those at the library all the time. Try it that way. Think about what human skin feels like, what not having a tail feels like. About what things smell like to humans, and...and running your hand through your hair without feeling horns. Don't try to push yourself into your human shape - try to push it out from the inside. Focus on that, okay?"  
  
    Nodding, Stiles glances back at his image in the mirror once more before closing his eyes.  
  
    Human skin, he thinks. It's easy, because he still has some, and he thinks about how Scott's hands on his shoulders should feel, how his eyesight should be, what the roof of his mouth should feel like. He thinks of his blunt fingernails scratching along his scalp, and his spine ending where it used to. Human, he thinks, gathering up all those feelings and _pushing_.  
  
    Slowly, disgustingly, it works - he can feel his skin itching along his spine and shoulders and the backs of his hands, can feel his fingernails softening. His vertebrae crack and grind in an oddly painless way as his tail shortens and recedes, and he can feel the wings melting into his arms. Dizzyingly, his skull seems to shift without moving. When he opens his eyes, it's to the sight of them bleeding back to their normal color, his pupils round and human again.  
  
    "Oh, my God," he breathes, legs going to jelly. Scott and John both reach out to catch him, leading him over to the computer chair as Lydia vacates it. She's watching him with an analytical sort of expression, like she's dissecting him with her mind, and he'd cringe, but he's just too tired.  
  
    "Dude," Scott laughs, his smile so wide that Stiles can't help but smile back, "that was just like Animorphs!"  
  
    "Totally cool," Allison agrees, because she's sweet like that.  
  
    Deaton leans forward, shining his light into Stiles' eyes again and full-on grinning when they (Stiles assumes) react normally. "Well, that's one question answered. I'd like to point out, though, that just because you don't look like you're part dragon now, it doesn't mean that you're not still part dragon."  
  
    "Gee, thanks," Stiles mutters, eyes fluttering as he fights off the waves of fatigue that follow on the tail of his relief and the strain of the shift. "Way to let me bask in my accomplishment before you kick me in the face."  
  
    "I'm sorry, Stiles," the druid says softly, "but I'd rather tell you now than let you assume something that isn't true, only to be disappointed or endangered later."  
  
    "Well, when you put it like that," Stiles trails off. His brain is sending him emergency shutdown notifications, and he's tempted to give in to them. In fact, that sounds really...really...  
  
    When he wakes up, he's alone, though he can hear muffled sounds of people moving around in the kitchen downstairs, and multiple voices. It's homey and comforting, but he's too achey and exhausted to even think about joining them. He groans quietly, bundling fresh sheets and warm blankets around himself, and tries to go back to sleep. He feels exposed, though, bare, and a chill is setting in that has nothing to do with temperature. Something feels wrong.  
  
    Eyes half-open and working on sleep-fuzzed automatic, he kicks of the bedding off and slides off the bed, dragging everything down to the fitted sheet onto the floor and stuffing it underneath the bedframe. Carefully, shoving and tugging and rolling and weaving, he wriggles himself under the bed and forms his nest around him. Then, when everything is soft and cozy and muffled, he curls up on his side and lets his eyes flutter shut again. It's not perfect - it doesn't smell like Dad and Scott and the rest of his flight, but it's close enough to right, and it soothes him to sleep again in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, the markings along Stiles back and tail and arms resembles the markings of a [Northern Pacific rattlesnake](http://peninsulaopenspacetrust.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/rattlesnake-web2.jpg).
> 
> An actual [alligator bellow](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3rzkrm98J0) is both a territorial thing and a mating thing. From what I've read (and I'm definitely not anything like an expert), they're [much more likely to hiss](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzvW5UpaFik) when they feel threatened or angry. If I'm wrong, please let me know - I like knowing things! Regardless, it's a bit different for dragons in my mythology - both growling and hissing are used when feeling threatened, but growling is more commonly used when injured and defensive. Hissing is less aggressive and more often used to signal mild displeasure.
> 
> The chapter count is a tentative thing - I haven't really, solidly blocked out the chapters, so it might change as we go along. I update sporadically, but please be patient with me, okay? I'm going to try to make this as entertaining on the screen as it is in my head, and any concrit you have to offer will help!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://www.frodis-baggins.tumblr.com)!


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